In the first shipload of seasick sergeants, who had clearly had an especially nasty last week at sea, there were two men who during the formation for the welcome ceremony in the courtyard of the fortress showed not the slightest sign that the journey had done them any harm. They were both very tall, one with flaming red hair, the other very blond with a beard that would have looked good on any Templar knight. The Saracens often felt greater fear of knights with blond beards than of those with black ones.
The two men stood side by side, conversing merrily in the midst of the crowd of more or less stooping comrades with green faces. These two immediately aroused Arn’s curiosity. When he perused the list of names he was given by the ship’s captain, he could only guess at a name that might be fitting for one of the two, a name that awakened vague memories of the cloister in him.
“Sergeants in our order, which of you is Tanguy de Bréton?” he yelled, and the red-haired man at once raised his hand in confirmation.
“And you next to him, what’s your name?” Arn asked, pointing at the red-haired man’s comrade, who had to be something other than a Breton.
“My name now Aral d’Austin,” replied the blond man with the long hair, in heavily accented Frankish.
“And where is Austin?” Arn asked, puzzled.
“It not where, it is my other name cannot say Frankish,” said the blond in broken Frankish.
“Well, what is your name in your own language then?” Arn went on, amused.
“My name in my own language is Harald Øysteinsson,” said the blond in Norse, which seemed to render the high Templar knight speechless.
Arn searched his memory for the Nordic words to say that this was the first time in the Holy Land that he had met a kinsman from the North, but the words did not come to him, because when he wasn’t thinking in Frankish it was in Latin or Arabic.
He gave up the attempt and instead gave his usual stern welcome speech to the newcomers and introduced the sergeant of the fortress, who would now see to arranging their quarters and registering the new men. But on the way from there he hastily whispered to the fortress sergeant to send that Aral d’Austin to the parlatoriumwhen everything else was finished.
After sext was sung the Norwegian, who like other Norwegians had suffered no ill effects from a little jaunt across the sea, came in to Arn, looking abashed and with his hair now cropped short. It was evident how much he hated losing his beautiful thick hair. Arn pointed to a chair and the man sat down, but not with the usual speed of those who had lived long among the Knights Templar.
“Tell me now, my kinsman…,” he began, having trouble with the Nordic words that he was trying to think/work out in advance. “Who are you, who is your father, and to which clan in Norway do you belong?”
The other stared at him, at first not understanding him; it took a few moments before he realized that Arn was speaking Norse. Then he burst into a long, sad tale about who he was. At first Arn had a hard time following along, but soon his old language seemed to seep back into his head and slowly filled it with understanding.
Young Harald was the son of Øystein Møyla, who in turn was the son of King Øystein Haraldsson. But more than a year ago the Birch-Legs, as his clan and their kinsmen were called, had lost a decisive battle at Re-i-Ramnes outside Tønsberg in southern Norway. King Øystein, Harald’s father, had been killed, and things had looked bleak for all the Birch-Legs. Many had moved to Western Götaland where they had friends. But as King Øystein’s son, Harald had found that he could not escape the seekers of vengeance unless he traveled very far away. And if he had to flee death anyway, why not seek death somewhere else and die for a greater cause than just being his father’s son?
“Who is the king of Western Götaland now, do you know?” asked Arn, full of excitement that he struggled hard not to show.
“The king there has been Knut Eriksson for a long time, and he is close to us Birch-Legs, as is his jarl, the Folkung Birger Brosa. These two good men are our closest kinsmen in Western Götaland. But tell me, knight, who are you and what is your great interest in me?”
“My name is Arn Magnusson and I am from the Folkung clan; my father’s brother is the jarl Birger Brosa. My dear friend since we were children is Knut Eriksson,” said Arn feeling a sudden strong emotion that he had a hard time concealing. “When God led your path to our austere brotherhood he led you in any case to a kinsman.”
“You sound more like a Dane when you speak rather than someone from Western Götaland,” Harald noted dubiously.
“That’s true. For many years as a child I lived with the Danes in the Vitae Scholacloister; I’ve forgotten what it’s called in the vernacular. But you can be assured that what I said was true. I am a Templar knight, as you see, and we do not lie. But why did they give you a black rather than a white mantle?”
“There was something about having to have a father who was a knight. A great deal of discussion about that. My explanation that my father was not a knight but a king did not seem to make much of an impression.”
“In that case, you were done an injustice, kinsman. But let’s look at the good side of this error, for I need a sergeant and you need a kinsman in a world that is very far from Norway. Wearing a black mantle you will learn more and live longer than if you’d been given a white one. There’s only one thing you have to keep in mind. Even though we Folkungs and you Birch-Legs are kinsmen in the North, you are a sergeant and I a fortress master here in the Holy Land. I am like a jarl, and you are like a retainer; you must never imagine or pretend otherwise, even though you and I speak the same language.”
“Such is the lot of someone who is forced to flee his own country,” said Harald sadly. “But it could have been worse. And if I had to choose between serving a man of Frankish lineage and a man of the Folkung clan, the choice would not be hard.”
“Well spoken, kinsman,” said Arn, standing up as a sign that the meeting was over.
When the summer approached and with it the time for war, much effort was spent organizing the new sergeants and knights in Gaza. As far as the knights were concerned, they worked most on getting the newcomers to adapt to the tactics of the cavalry and the command signs. They also needed to drill discipline into them, which was very strict. A knight who on his own authority left a formation risked being divested of his white mantle in disgrace. The only case in which the Rule permitted such a digression was if it were done to save a Christian’s life. And that would have to be proven afterward.
Most of the new men, who had become knights largely because of their lineage more than anything else, were quite used to riding horses, so that part of the exercise was the easiest and the most pleasant.
Worse was having to stand and sweat through all the practice with weapons in hand. On that point almost all the new tenderfeet were so awkward that they would soon needlessly die if they did not quickly realize that the belief they had previously entertained—that they were better than others with a sword, battle-axe, lance, and shield—was of no merit whatsoever here among the Templar knights. The newcomers had to learn this honest truth before they could start to learn their skills anew. Out of necessity, all the older teachers were harsh on the tenderfeet at first. The bodies of the new recruits were soon covered with black-and-blue marks and hurt so badly when they tried to sleep at night that they truly deserved their nickname of tenderfeet.
Harald Øysteinsson was a warrior as wild as he was wretched. At first he had picked out a sword that was much too heavy, and with it he stormed toward Arn like a Viking berserker with no wit or sense. Arn struck him to the ground, kicked him to the ground, and knocked him to the ground with his shield. He also hacked at his upper arms and thighs with his blunted sword, which didn’t go through his chain mail but left bruises nevertheless.